The Thing He Loves
by Flameboi
Summary: Jack Sparrow x Commodore Norrington SLASH. A despairing Norrington musing over his recent mistake and remembering the one he loves. Warning: major character death.


Yet each man kills the thing he loves,  
By each let this be heard,  
Some do it with a bitter look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss,  
The brave man with a sword!  
  
~Oscar Wilde, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol~  
  
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The Thing He Loves  


  
Commodore James Norrington sat at the mahogany writing desk in his parlor, a snifter of brandy close by his hand, and, considered by the light of the lamp, once again, the letter from Elizabeth. With her new husband, Will, the blacksmith, she had returned to England with her father, the former Governor, now Lord, of the House of Lords in Parliament, Swann. Mrs. Turner, steadfast friend, nonetheless kept up her correspondence with James faithfully. "Oh yes, faithful, dear loyal Elizabeth. How could I ever tell you? You would be so very angry with me, would you not?" murmured Norrington. "and if I wrote you that I believe I am going quite mad, you would be overwrought with concern despite all fury."  
  
The Commodore leaned back in his leather chair, and, took up the brandy, drinking rather more deeply than brandy was meant to be drunk; emptying the snifter, he refilled it from the bottle beside the lamp on his desk. Sighing deeply, James allowed his eyes to half close, otherwise staring unfocusedly at the diffusion of amber liquid through glass by lamplight, memory drifting.  
  
It was two years since Elizabeth had become Mrs. Turner; less than half that time that she, with her family, had taken passage to England, and, two years, four months, and seventeen days since the day that she and Will had stood between James and the condemned pirate Jack Sparrow.  
  
That was the day that, despite losing a wife-to-be, Commodore James Norrington had found renewed purpose in a life, that, for all the pleasure of accomplishment in his quite successful naval career, for all the sweetness of his young promotion to Commodore, had been, of late, strangely flat; rather bland and devoid of much enjoyment, if full enough of duty's many tasks.  
  
The very next day had dawned glorious, and James had almost to repress a whistle from his lips as the Dauntless set out upon the trail of the Black Pearl. The Commodore knew where Captain Sparrow would be headed: straight back to the Isla de Muerta, to claim the vast treasure, all of which was quite safe for the taking save that one accursed chest.  
  
Just a step behind, in arriving at the cavern, they were, Norrington and the men he commanded; just a step behind, and, though he frowned and looked quite fierce over missing their quarry, as James surveyed the still gold-filled, if somewhat less copiously, cave, he felt also a secret, and well-hidden thrill: the chase was not yet over.  
  
For eleven months, Jack Sparrow and his crew of miscreants had led the men of the Royal Navy on such a merry chase, indeed, recalled Norrington, a wistful and sad smile playing for a moment over his lips. James noticed, then, eyes flickering open as he attempted to sip from an empty glass, that the brandy in it was quite gone, and, quite contrary to all of his well-mannered and cultured habits, he set the snifter aside, and picked up the bottle itself, and, began to drink from it, as he continued to torment himself with the bittersweet fruit of memory.  
  
Eleven months, and then, ill chance in the form of a sudden gale had half-crippled the Dauntless, near the southern coast of the Americas; forced to make an emergency berth to repair, James had found himself stranded in New Orleans, the decadent 'Little Paris' of the west. Ill-tempered with his luck, the Commodore, though excessive drink had hardly been his habit, then, had gone late one evening, and alone, into the seedy, down-at-heels sort of tavern he scrupulously avoided closer to home. James had been seeking only a few stiff drinks, his own supply of liquor being depleted, but what he had found, raising a bottle of rum to his laughing lips, had been Captain Jack himself.  
  
Knowing that Dame Fortune had smiled upon him once again, James did not hesitate as he stepped up behind the pirate, service pistol quite snuggly pressed against the pirate's lower back, to make his long-sought arrest. Why James, did ye miss me? Or IS that a pistol yer pokin' me with? Jack slurred, tone light and mocking. Norrington replied, Well, Sparrow, you will perhaps not be jesting when... getting no more out before his words were abruptly cut off by, as he later discovered, AnaMaria slamming a pitcher into the back of his head, causing him to topple unconscious to the filthy floor.  
  
Waking with a splitting headache, James found that he was quite unbound and unfettered, and, dressed, as well, save his boots, coat, hat, and wig, divested of his weapons of course, and, laying in a hammock in the captain's cabin aboard the Black Pearl. That it was the Pearl he knew within moments, for Jack himself was seated at a narrow desk in a ridiculously plush chair of red velvet, studying a rather ancient looking chart. That the Pearl was underway upon the open sea was easily determined by the rocking motion of the ship around him. As James attempted to sit up, not the easy task in a hammock when one's head is spinning, the pirate turned to flash a gold-studded grin at him, "Why Jamie, er, Commodore, awake at last."   
  
Norrington scowled, "What in bloody blue blazes do you think you are doing, Sparrow?!" he demanded, barely suppressing a wince at the pain in his head. Jack smirked, "CAPTAIN Sparrow, thank ye very much," and then added, "And, I'm perusin' a brilliant example of fictional cartography. Supposed to be a map to El Dorado, savvy? It's bollocks, is what. But drawn by a master hand, interesting."   
  
James snorted, "El Dorado indeed. What you are, in fact, engaged in, at the moment, Captain Sparrow, is the unlawful abduction of Commodore of His Majesty's Royal Navy!"  
  
Jack's chuckle was insufferable, his grin more so, his answer downright mocking, "And that's goin' t' get me hung more'n just the piracy will, Commodore? Twice, perchance?"  
  
At that moment Norrington had had more than he could take of the pirate's attitude, and, awareness of his situation temporarily eclipsed by anger, he launched himself from the hammock and towards Jack. Who, moving nimble as a cat, actually caught the Commodore, as he stumbled and would have fallen, a wave of pain and dizziness overriding James' own usually-impressive balance.  
  
"Steady there, now, ye had a nasty smack in the skull," murmured Jack, steering him backwards with apparently little effort, until James recovered enough to feel the solidness of the pirate's bunk under him, and the warmth of rum-scented pirate pressed up against him. Norrington meant to shove him away, and, so, was taken aback by his own slight disappointment a half-moment later, when Jack released him on his own.  
  
A bit nonplussed, James only muttered a barely audible, "Yes," prompting a smile from Jack that he could only describe as one of camaraderie, even empathy perhaps, That'd be cause AnaMaria hits bout like a mule kicks, mate, and then a moment later, Ere, have some o' this, it'll help with the head, as the pirate captain offered James an unlabeled jug. Though he in no way trusted Sparrow, James supposed that if the pirate meant to kill him, yet, at least, he would have done so while he slept, and, thus, the drink was unlikely to be poisoned; besides, he was very thirsty, and so, he took it, and sniffed, smelling rum; a sip later and he revised his opinion: if it was rum it was a sort much stronger than any he had had before. Norrington had another smaller sip, managing not to cough.  
  
James barely noticed as the light from the lamp waned, nearly having exhausted it's oil supply; he merely tipped back the bottle of brandy and drank once more, fancying in his reverie that what he tasted was not brandy at all, drifting deep once more into his recollection of the past.  
  
Jack Sparrow had given him dinner, stew, bread, oranges, and even a bottle of rather fine cabernet; had eaten with him, had spoken to him at length. Initially, the topic of conversation revolved around James' desire to know what Jack intended to do with him; after the third or so shrugged demurral from the pirate, the Commodore realized that Sparrow was not obfuscating his intentions, but, rather, had not yet decided himself what he wished to do with his prisoner. Thereafter, the evening rapidly drifted from the merely strange to the nearly unbelievable, as James' relaxed somewhat due to the wine; the conversation flowed to topics he would not previously have believed Jack capable of discussing, but, as the evening waned towards night, he found himself admitting that this was a very unusual pirate. A pirate who, for one thing, for all his outward appearance of an utterly debased ruffian, albeit a rather handsome one (and where had THAT thought crept in!), quoted Machiavelli. Jack grinned at James at one point and said, I may just decide t' keep ye, mate, Norrington of course replying that he certainly would not, only to have Captain Sparrow lean in a bit across the small table (inlaid ebony, as he recalled), smiling, Thy friends keep close, but thy enemies, closer. James blinked a bit, and murmured, You read? and Jack looked almost wounded. I read. The Prince, I read in Italian, for example, since that would be the language ol' Nicolo wrote in, the hurt look replaced quickly with a smirk.  
  
Jack, he found out, spoke four languages, read three of them, and fancied Shakespeare's sonnets; he was not only the captain, but, the usual navigator of the Pearl, also having a good grasp of the necessary higher mathematics. James was nothing but extremely surprised, and Sparrow equally as amused at this reaction. At some point the Commodore realized he was on his way to well drunk, and, the wine was gone; Jack chuckled and offered more of the noxious rum, and, for whatever impulse, James accepted, drinking, then offering it back.   
  
Commodore Norrington could feel the silly smile on his face, but did not realize he was staring at Jack's kohl-limned eyes until Jack leaned in even closer, Here, get a better look, Jamie. James blushed, and drew back, only to be halted as the back of his neck ran into something, something warm and strong that he recognized an instant later as Jack's hand, but he had no time to ponder this before Jack's lips were pressed against his own in a slightly urgent, imminently teasing, and yet, soft, kiss.  
  
Disjointed, James' thoughts flew in all directions, the observant part of his mind noting the rough, slightly tickly sensation of Jack's moustache and beard; never having kissed a man before, the Commodore was a bit surprised at the difference, and the similarity- for example, though he tasted of rum, Jack's lips were as soft as any woman's; his tongue was caressing James' lips and probing past...   
  
James startled backwards as he realized that he had been kissing Jack back almost passionately; he stared a moment, trying simply to breathe, and not move, aware too, now, of the near painful arousal trapped behind his suddenly much-too-tight breeches.  
  
What.. are you doing.. Captain Sparrow? Norrington all but whispered, trapped in the smoldering gaze of Jack's fathoms-deep stare, B'lieve ye can call me Jack, for the moment, James. As for what I'm about, lessee if ye can figure it for your ownsies, replied the pirate with a wicked grin, moments before he slipped down to his knees in front of James, pushing the Commodore's legs apart with his hands, and then sliding those hands in a slow caress up James' thighs, one hand cupping the bulge beneath James' breeches briefly, wringing a moan from Norrington's lips; then it was all plain enough, and very clear, inescapable: Jack was undoing Norrington's breeches, and James could do nothing but gasp in desire, then groan, as Jack demonstrated very plainly he knew quite well what to do to bring a man pleasure with his lush tongue. Despite all Jack's skill, it surely could not have been either as instantly done nor as infinite as it seemed, somehow both at once, but in the moments just after, it seemed to James, that he had never felt such intense physical pleasure in all his life.  
  
Jack grinned up at him, and murmured, "Feelin' better, James?" smiling, smoldering devil-eyes drilling into Norrington, who was spared having to reply by Jack's pulling him down from the chair, pulling the Commodore down onto Jack himself, and kissing him deeply, fierce, his own arousal pressed hard against James' hip.   
  
The crash of the bottle to the wooden floor startled James from his musing, at least until he had, with drunken befuddlement, determined the source of the noise; he did not bother to stand and retrieve it, as he simply did not care. A faint luminescence spilled from the windows, casting the room into dimness and shadows, and James cast his thoughts back to that first pleasure-drenched, sinfully wonderful night- though the porthole windows of Jack's captain's cabin aboard the Pearl had been smaller than these casements, and thicker glass besides, it seemed the moon had penetrated more easily there, somehow, upon the sea, for James could recall the nuances of Jack's expressions in his recall of that night. Again, the pirate surprised the Commodore; Jack was surely every bit the lustful and passionate lover James would have imagined, but, he was not, as expected, brutal; rather, he was, for someone who did, it seemed, nearly everything with full energy, remarkably gentle. It was with the greatest care that Sparrow had relieved James of his virginity (at least so far as men were concerned,) and afterwards, he had held the other man to him upon the bunk, murmuring little crooning sounds, yo ho ho' and some bit about really bad eggs' all that James could recall of it, before, sleep had stolen his exhausted self to dreams.  
  
James could look back, now, and remember the next three days as some of the very best of his life; sun and sea and Captain Jack Sparrow, passion, and tenderness - for all that he had been, surely, an abducted captive, he had been happy, as well. Then, like all things seem as must, at least all things of extraordinary sweetness, it had ended. Spying a naval clipper at some distance upon the waves, Jack had simply let him go, though in retrospect, it seemed, reluctantly. James had been placed in Pearl's dinghy to be rescued' still he felt, then, as now, as if perhaps he had been more recaptured by his enemy than rescued from same. Still, there was duty, and there were appearances to be kept up, and, as always, James bore up through sheer will. If his nights and quiet moments were filled with dreams and eidolons of the pirate captain, he was yet a Commodore of the Royal Navy, and gave no sign, through the lonely months that passed, each seeming longer than the last, of any such traitorous leanings.  
  
It was not until, one afternoon occupied in the simple but time-consuming task of reviewing the reports of the Quartermaster-General, that James had realized he had truly and utterly lost his heart to Jack Sparrow. A commotion from the courtyard entrance drew him onto the balcony to observe, and what Norrington saw then stabbed him to the very soul: none other than Captain Jack himself being wrestled and hauled between a quartet of jack-tars. Arrested. Manacled.  
  
James felt despair well in his throat, and rushed from the window, and down the steps at so rapid a pace that his lack of breaking a leg was sheer stupid luck; he managed to compose himself before entering the courtyard, however, and there heard the tale from the Sergeant in charge of the proceedings, with mocking comments from the pirate thrown in.  
  
James clenched his fists on the arms of his chair so hard he felt the wood creak, and muttered in inebriated, angry grief, It was your own damnable fault, being caught so stupidly, Jack. Passed out drunk in a tavern, and he sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, and whispering, But the rest.. That you may blame me for most righteously, Jack.. savvy?   
  
Stating to his men that he himself would personally guard the prisoner to prevent such escapes as he was famous for, James had Captain Sparrow taken to his own quarters, in chains, of course. What followed was a beautiful bacchanalia, as Jack delightedly encouraged him to play the rampant and harshly lustful guard' to Jack's captive. Even, now, drunk as he was, James' felt a wave of hot desire to think of how tight and hot the velvet slide into Jack had been, how delicious the pirate's muffled groans as he found his release - why, onto the very desk at which James now sat. He leaned forward, and pressed his cheek to the wood, as if he might still scent some essence of Sparrow upon the wood. All that the Commodore could detect, though, was wood polish, hardness, and sorrow.  
  
Not quite drunk enough to pass out, James now tried to fight the rest of the memories from playing through his mind, but, he was far too in the sway of the liquor for any success at that. Passion sated, there had been kisses, and words. The words, James did not know, still, if he would have rather left unsaid, the replies from Jack, unheard. It gave little comfort now, indeed, to recall that love had been professed, returned; perhaps that only made the knife twist deeper yet.  
  
Jack's escape had been planned by the two of them, and, indeed, it was simple enough: James would once more suffer the blow to the head requisite to absolve him of guilt in the pirate's escape, and, once more Jack would be free. It worked, from what Norrington was able to gather later, perfectly, until the point where Jack, having swum to the Pearl, found the cove entered by the battleship Avenger, carrying one Admiral Montegue on a visit to Port Royal.   
  
The battle was joined, and, James awoke in the midst of it, head pounding with a cadence he realized was cannon and not merely cerebral agony; he rushed to the dock to see the Dauntless already assisting the Avenger out upon the open sea. Helplessly, James watched as the Avenger, listing badly from Pearl's salvos, fired a blast that clearly ruptured the pirate ship's powder magazine. Uncaring who saw, Norrington sank to his knees upon the dock; later, it was supposed that he was merely dizzy from the knot upon his head, and though he did not weep as he saw Pearl blaze, and sink, it was because the grief he felt was too sharp and raw for tears, not because he cared what might be thought of him.  
  
But that was not enough for you, you damned whore, James muttered, cursing Fate. Indeed, it had not been. Terrible enough, surely, to lose Jack, but if the pirate captain had gone down with his beloved Pearl, it would have become, in time, James imagined, a tragic, if bearable, grief. That was not to be. An unconscious, burned, and bleeding Jack was hooked from the water by the Dauntless' crew, and brought back to Port Royal. James himself was chided for allowing his initial escape, as, numb with suffering, he bore the Admiral's contempt with what was seen as stoic humility, but Montague was in too high a spirit at being the one to sink the legendary Pearl to mete out any real punishment to the luckless Commodore.  
  
James was to see Jack again only once, the very next day, as he was half-carried, his right leg broken, to the gallows. He meant, did James, to somehow prevent the hanging; he knew in his mind that he had wildly planned a dozen schemes to save his lover, but at the moment when Jack's crimes were read, he found himself frozen, unable to take that step that might rescue love, but would condemn forever all else he had ever stood for in his career. He simply stood, frozen, mute, staring up at the scaffold, at Jack, looking half-dead already, and as if he did not care; James understood - his Pearl was gone. This, too, some consolation could have brought, but the pirate at the last, noose placed about his neck, struck the wordless blow that cursed James as surely as Cortez' treasure had once cursed Barbossa and his crew. Jack looked down at him, as if there were no one else there at all, looked directly into James eyes, and smiled, a small, sad, smile, mouth moving in silent syllables that James' could read as easily as hear the loudest shout: Not your fault, love.'  
  
How could he, how dare he, a pirate, be so accursedly unselfish in the last moment of his life? James knew not. Nor did he know, even now, how he kept himself from crying out, IT IS! It IS my fault! as the trap opened, and Jack fell, as the Commodore heard the most awful sound, the crack of his lover's.. his beloved's, neck breaking. The sound of m' heart breaking, Jack, he murmured, words slurred with drink, And then they hung you up and the.. seagulls.. took your eyes. God damn you, Jack, I loved your eyes.   
  
Finally, released by the drink, James sobbed, an indeterminate period of wrenching weeping that provided no balm for his spirit, head down upon his desk. As tears finally subsided, and finding himself now more sober than he had been, James sat up, wearily, God damn me, I loved you, Jack. I loved you, and I let you die. It is my fault.  
  
Dry of tears, stripped of anything but a terrible emptiness within, James crumbled the now-tearstained letter from Elizabeth in his hand, and, turned his face towards the moonlit window, too uncaring even to make the effort to take himself to his bed. My fault, my love. You were a pirate, and a good man, and I.. I am neither.


End file.
